Straight On Till Morning

by Liz Braswell

  “Are there any of those French biscuits left?” Michael asked hopefully. “The ones you made?”

  “The ones I and Mother made? Perhaps. I’ll set out some and serve you a nice cup of proper tea while you go upstairs and bathe. And then, if there’s time, I’ll tell you a story before bed.”

  “Oh, Wendy and her stories,” John said with a smile and not quite a roll of his eyes. “I have too much reading to do. Like actual reading. Of actual history. Plus, Wendy Darling, I find your tales have a bit of a Freudian bent to them these days. Haven’t you noticed? It’s all fathers and sons and missing mothers.…”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said frostily. And indeed she didn’t. But his tone was nasty enough.

  “I want three lumps in my tea! And milk!” Michael called over his shoulder as he stomped out of the room.

  “Oh,” Wendy said, suddenly remembering. “Mother is supposed to come home from her dinner with Mrs. Cradgeapple early tonight—if you hurry, you may get to say good night to her before you turn in!”

  “Oh. Yes. Mother,” John said thoughtfully. “Haven’t seen her in ages. Tall lady? About so high? Would absolutely love to catch up with the old hen.”

  “John!” Wendy put her hands on her hips.

  “Tootles, Sister. Off to read some more Swiss psychology. You know those Swiss. All chocolate and timepieces and subtext.” John made an elaborate bow and pretended to tip the hat that was no longer there.

  Once he was gone, Nana, curled up comfortably in her early retirement by the fire, gave Wendy the sort of questioning look that only a really intelligent dog could.

  “Yes, I see the muddy tracks they left on the floor,” Wendy sighed. “And no, I don’t know what to do about them. Boys! They grow up so fast.”

  Now that was an interesting idea.

  Never Land was full of children who never grew up—but what about a boy who grew up too fast? Literally. Like…hatching out of an egg as a baby and then attaining the height of a man by the end of the day.

  “They watched the egg with expectant faces,” she murmured, trying it out. “‘What’s it gonna be?’ asked Cubby. ‘How should I know?’ Peter laughed. ‘It’ll be something great, though—you can count on that!’”

  Yes. That was lovely. She pulled out her little notebook. Now that her brothers no longer cared to hear Wendy’s stories, she had to put them somewhere.

  And maybe, someday, someone would like to hear them again.

  Michael came back down dripping wet and yet somehow barely clean—there was still chalk on his neck. He guzzled his tea and madeleines and stomped back upstairs to play with his lead soldiers. John hadn’t bothered descending yet, probably caught up in his books about real soldiers being played in the wars of kings.

  Wendy sat by herself in the kitchen, regarding the notebook and the abandoned and untouched tea plates. Madeleines were all the rage right now and it had been wonderful spending the afternoon trying to make them with Mother, but after the first day they had sort of dried out and become a little tasteless. She picked one up and tentatively dipped it in her cooling tea, then nibbled its now soft edge. Much better. They almost tasted a little bit like sunshine—like warm, exotic days.…

  Her mind whirled. Suddenly, she saw a ship bobbing in tropical waters, and herself on a beach. It was another Never Land dream she was remembering—but this one had felt so real! The sailors—pirates—were singing, and Hook was bowing from the waist, as perfect and gallant as John had been awkward and foolish. In the sunlight and open air the captain seemed far less terrifying.

  But maybe it was because of the wolf at her side, the one she had befriended so long ago, growling and ready to kill for her. Maybe that was why she was brave.

  A pity you can’t stay here…the captain was saying. That rapscallion utterly abandoned you to such a dismal, gray life in London Town.…

  She had frowned. “Do not talk about Peter Pan that way. You are a pirate. You make people walk the plank and burn their ships.”

  And yet never in my most evil and wretched moments would I abandon a lady like yourself to such a fate. He really has no heart, not even a black one like mine.

  “I am not abandoned. He left me his shadow,” she said, perhaps a little too boastfully.

  Hook’s eyes widened at that.

  You…have…his shadow, you say?

  Wendy felt her lip quiver a little but stilled it. A mistake?

  “It is nothing to you. And I am fine, thank you very much.”

  After all those stories you told about him…all that time you devoted to enriching his legend…and this is how he treats you? By leaving you…and making you be caretaker of his shadow, no less.…

  Wendy in the dream didn’t cry. She wouldn’t, not in front of a villain like Hook.

  Wendy with the madeleine did.

  She put her head on her arms and wept herself to sleep.

  Hours later she was gently woken by the soft touches and sweet perfume of her mother, who somehow, without actually picking up the nearly grown Wendy, managed to gather her daughter in her arms and gently lead her upstairs.

  “What in the blazes is wrong with her?” Mr. Darling growled. “Asleep at the table like a serving wench?”

  “Shhh,” Mrs. Darling cooed. She gestured with her hand, making him scoop up the notebook Wendy took with her everywhere.

  “Mother,” Wendy murmured, waking a little. “Oh, Mother, you look so beautiful.”

  “Thank you, dear. You’re so sweet.…”

  Mrs. Darling helped her out of her dress and fixed her hair, more shadowy apparition of eyelashes and perfect coif than parent of stuff and substance. Wendy enjoyed being treated like a little girl again. She snuggled into her bed drowsily and heard her parents talk.

  “Something’s got to be done about her,” Mr. Darling swore, shaking the notebook for emphasis. “There’s something not quite right about that girl.”

  “She’s just a little…blue. She needs a project,” Mrs. Darling said. “A boy. Or maybe a charity.”

  “Charity? How about a Darling charity?” Mr. Darling huffed. “Courtships are all very well and good but require dresses and hats and all sorts of expensive shenanigans. That was always the advantage of Wendy…she never wanted the things other girls had.”

  “No,” Mrs. Darling said with a touch of sadness. “She always wanted something…else.”

  And Wendy dreamed quickly forgotten dreams of foreign seas and wolves.

  Wendy opened her eyes, dreams of hidden cabins and friendly wolves and menacing pirates disappearing into the dim morning grayness. She had absolutely no desire to get up and perform the start-of-day rituals she used to relish: washing her face with fresh, cold water, giving her hair a hundred solid strokes before pinning it back, going through her dresses and deciding which one to wear, which one to mend, which one perhaps to embellish a little.

  But despite her whole-body unwillingness to begin this process, routine took over. Habits, especially healthy ones, become easily ingrained in people like Wendy. Without even meaning to she rose and turned and neatened her bed, smoothing the pillow out so it would look pretty and inviting when she went to lie down again that night. She drifted over to the basin of water and splashed her face (without looking in the mirror), ran the brush through her hair (only fifty-seven times), and examined her nails (dispassionately; she decided they didn’t need to be buffed).

  Moving made her feel better; accomplishing little things gave her dim sparks of satisfaction. Before long she had the boys up and out of bed, a whirlwind of toast and tea and brushing down jackets. Some of the brothers’ energy managed to rub off on their sister. And Nana, bless her, tried to help like she used to, holding a spare white cuff in her mouth, waiting patiently and dolorously until one of the passing boys—Michael—grabbed it and patted her in thanks. It all ended when John blew an airy kiss and pulled his reluctant brother after him out the door.

  “Goodnes
s,” Mrs. Darling said, appearing for a moment in the foyer like a tentative daytime ghost. She was resplendent in her white froth of a nightgown, and prettily covered her mouth for a delicate yawn. “Whatever would I do without you, dear.”

  She kissed her daughter on the head and Wendy fell to warm pieces under her praise. But then the figment retreated back upstairs to perform her own ablutions and the lower house was released to the normal workaday world. Wendy had toast and tea and settled down for her French lessons with Mademoiselle Gabineau. Not satisfied with her main subject of expertise, Mademoiselle also had strong opinions on history and maths, lecturing angrily—and often incomprehensibly—in her native tongue about the first topic while not letting Wendy give up on the second. “You must keep a house someday, wiz all of ze accounts,” she admonished. “And make ze right decreases when knitting a jumper.”

  Wendy didn’t deign to reply, uninterested in either application of maths. She surreptitiously stroked the pages of the tiny notebook in her apron pocket and dreamed of a well-spoken, logical, and utterly evil witch.

  The day seemed like it was going to progress along the same lines as the one before it, and the one before that, and the one before that—but sometime before tea there were strange noises downstairs, outer doors opening and closing and a deep-throated male voice sounding out.

  It was far too early for Mr. Darling to be done with business already. Concerned, Wendy tripped down the stairs as fast as she thought it decorous to do so. Nana waited at the bottom, doing something she rarely engaged in. She was growling. Very softly.

  “Dear Nana, what is it?” Wendy asked, growing even more nervous. The dog was large but not much of a wolf, and probably too old to do any real damage to an intruder.

  “Oh, what a funny thought. ‘Not much of a wolf.’ Wherever did that come from, I wonder? Wolves indeed.”

  It was just prattle, but talking aloud to herself always made Wendy feel brave. And anyway, if the house was being invaded, it was up to her to defend its inhabitants and silverware.

  She stuck out her chin and pushed open the front hall door with a carefully composed look of indignation on her face.

  “Now see here, villain—!”

  She stopped immediately, presented with a very odd scene.

  Mr. Darling was home early. It was rare to see him by day in a full suit, coat, and hat; usually when he came home it was dark and he went straight upstairs to change into his slippers and smoking jacket. He held his arms strangely, as if one were broken and he were cradling it with the other. Also unusual was that Mrs. Darling was with him, a gloved hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

  Mr. Darling looked utterly confused by his daughter’s words, his large, bushy black eyebrows rising nearly to the top of his head.

  “Wendy? What in blazes is the reason for that tone? I? A villain?”

  “Dear, whatever is the matter?” Mrs. Darling asked with an indulgent smile.

  “I heard noises—I just thought…I’m so glad you’re home early today, though, Father! Wait, did you hurt yourself? Did you break your arm? Is that why you’re—no, if you had, Dr. Sorello would be here with his treatments and nasty draughts. Is it some sort of holiday? I don’t think I had it in my datebook. Is it a birthday? Are the banks closed? Or—no! Oh no, Father. You didn’t lose your job, did you? You and Mother look so radiant, that can’t be it. Is there other news?”

  Mr. Darling looked more and more blown back by the torrent of Wendy’s words, as if a wind were physically assaulting him.

  “All right, all right,” he said, unable to think of anything better to quiet her.

  “Wendy, dear, we’ve brought you something,” Mrs. Darling said through soft laughter. “Show her.”

  Mr. Darling moved his arms and revealed the reason he had been cradling them so carefully.

  At first Wendy thought it was a rat, which would explain its size (small), its color (white), and Nana’s discomfort (extreme).

  But then a fat little pink tongue lolled out of its mouth and large black eyes blinked in excitement. It panted and pawed at Mr. Darling’s arms, excited but obviously unsure what it wanted to do. Its little ears, no larger than the corners of a lady’s pocket handkerchief, were actually quite huge compared to the thing’s head and didn’t seem to be able to move very much, as they would have on a German shepherd or Nana.

  “Oh,” Wendy said, blinking. Her carefully read and reread books of Manners for English Girls and Boys had nothing she could draw from for this sort of situation. “Oh. A small dog.”

  “It’s a teacup terrier. Isn’t it the most darling thing?” Mrs. Darling said, rubbing her face against its and kissing.

  Mr. Darling looked unsettled by this physical display of affection, the dry nose touching the wet one.

  “Yes, well, all the girls seem to be into them right now. Carrying them in baskets…bows in their fur…taking them to the park…I don’t know. You don’t hunt with them, I’m fairly certain. We just thought you could use…ah…a little friend.”

  “We were afraid you were getting lonely in this big old drafty house,” Mrs. Darling said, taking her daughter’s hands and squeezing them.

  Wendy, so talkative before, now had nothing to say. Mr. Darling always complained about how tiny their house was, endlessly comparing it to those of his business associates and of the managers whose ranks he wanted to someday be among. Mrs. Darling never said anything obviously unkind about their home, but did often refer to it in painfully obvious terms: adorable, cozy, manageable, charming, doll-sized.

  “Oh…yes…lonely…” Wendy said, seizing on that one point, the one that was most reasonable.

  (Nana whuffed indignantly. What was she, a piece of furniture?)

  Her parents waited expectantly.

  The polite thing to do, Wendy realized, was to walk forward and put a hand out to the tiny dog and let it smell her. She made herself do so.

  The teeny puppy snuffled its wet nose all over her hand and seemed to lick—or slurp—her, like a jungle creature from one of her adventure books. Something horrid that ate ants or honey or anything else that required sucking up. It barked several times in a manner that was both strangely too quiet and somehow extremely irritating.

  “Thank you, Father,” Wendy said, carefully removing her hand as if for the purpose of hugging him. It wasn’t entirely a lie; she did indeed want to envelop Mr. Darling’s large form and rest her head on his side, smelling his aftershave and his general father-ness. Her mother hugged her on the other side and kissed her on the forehead.

  They loved her, that was more than obvious.

  They just didn’t understand her.

  Wendy did make an effort to try to see what the puppy could do.

  (With Nana watching in stern disapproval.)

  It would run into the middle of the room and then wag its tail like it had accomplished something truly incredible.

  It would run up into her arms and lick her chin.

  It would scamper along next to a ball that Wendy rolled.

  It would not make any actual attempt to stop the ball, grab the ball, fetch the ball, or do anything with the ball aside from barking at it in that tiny yip that made Wendy want to lean over and say “Pardon me?”

  Eventually, with two hours until the boys came home, Mother and Father now nowhere to be seen, and nothing else to do, Wendy found an appropriately sized basket, tied a ribbon around it, tucked in Snowball (really, what else could she name it?), put on her coat, and attempted an outing. She left her notebook behind, encumbered with her new pet and umbrella.

  Nana also remained inside, aloof and disapproving.

  While she felt a little ridiculous, Wendy had to admit that the cold, slightly damp air felt good on her face. Moisturizing, her mother would say. Invigorating, her father would say. The little dog peeped out of the basket and looked around blankly with no actual interest in hopping out and getting a firsthand sniff of the many wonders they passed. Wendy nodded to other walker
s, most of whom regarded Snowball with amusement or delight.

  And then, down the path, came the demonic Shesbow twins.

  They were clad as was their wont: in similar dresses of different hue, similar hats with different flowers, similar parasols with different tassels. Outfits just alike enough to give a nod to the sisters’ ostensible sameness, just a bit off to remind the viewer that they weren’t the same person at all.

  Wendy froze and considered heading back the other way, as if she had forgotten something. She could see the steely blue of four Shesbow eyes and didn’t feel strong under their lantern gazes, especially after the caroling party last Christmas.

  But they had spotted her, and she had something interesting to distract them with, so maybe it would be all right. Wendy stuck out her chin and walked forward bravely to meet her fate.

  “Miss Darling,” Clara said with the beginnings of a coldly amused smile. “It’s so lovely to see you out and about in public, especially after—”

  “Oh! What is that you have there?” Phoebe cried, spotting the basket.

  “Him?” Wendy almost blew it immediately. Was the dog even a him? She hadn’t bothered to check. “He’s new.”

  “Oh—oh, how perfect,” Phoebe simpered, holding out a delicately curled gloved finger. The puppy obligingly sniffed and she practically screamed with delight.

  “He’s adorable,” Clara said flatly, to the point as always. “When did you get him?”

  “Well,” Wendy said, stalling. She hated the way that, despite the girls’ continually bad treatment of her, she was flushing and eager for any kind word of acceptance. Telling the specifics of the puppy’s origin might spoil the chances of that happening. “The house was feeling a bit lonely, don’t you know? And I thought, well, what I need is a nice little companion to keep me company and to absolutely indulge.”

  “Isn’t he the sweetest,” Phoebe cooed.

  “I’m gratified to hear you’ve taken on a project like this,” Clara said, tapping her parasol and trying to sound like her grandmother. “Everyone was worried, you know.”